


Towards the light

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Relapse, mention of drug use, some language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I swore I wouldn't write a post finale fic so here it is.<br/>And I now there's even a second chapter ....<br/>Chapter three - I think I'm done not writing </p><p>Excuse any factual errors regarding relapse and it's after effects. This isn't my usual fluff, contains language and mature situation. Nothing explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She was the first to find him, face down at the far end of the tunnel ... used syringes, tattered paper, broken glass strewn about his head like an urban halo around a martyred junkie. Joan couldn't breathe. She stood frozen, the hissing of panic filled her ears. If she did nothing Sherlock could stay forever between states - dead and not dead. 

Training overrode fear and she bent down, carefully turning him over, releasing her long held breath when she saw his eyes flutter. 

Her hand gripped his shoulder, "Sherlock ... Sherlock ... It's me ... Sherlock." He moved his head; half lidded eyes strained, attempting to focus on her face. 

Joan checked his pulse, brushed away the bits of dirt and gravel that clung on to his cheek, wiped the drool around his mouth with her bare hand. She didn't want them to see him like this. "Can you sit up?"

With staccato jerks of limbs and her assistance, Sherlock sat up and leaned against the graffitied concrete. His eyes glistened with pain.

She swallowed down the need to wrap him in her arms and protect him from the world. "You need medical attention." 

"Watson," the hoarse whisper of her name sputtered from his lips as an apology. "I ... I ..." He moved his hand, long fingers extended to touch her cheek. Joan shrunk away from his attempted caress. Not here, not now, not like this. She took hold of his hand and brought it down onto her lap. "You'll be okay. We'll be okay ..." she repeated the words over for both of them. Sherlock's eyes closed, releasing tears that trickled down his dirty cheeks. 

Joan's hand wiped away his tears and then hers. She turned her head towards the sunlight at the far side of the tunnel. "Marcus, over here!"

\---

He regained consciousness enough to refuse medical care or transport to hospital. Joan assured the EMTs she could take care of him.

Marcus helped her take him upstairs to her bedroom. "Closer to the bathroom should he get sick," she told him. Sherlock did not protest. He said nothing, got in bed, rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Joan closed the drapes and shutters.

Marcus saw himself out after his offers to stay and help were politely refused. 

Sherlock slept. She slipped in and out of the room throughout the day, never leaving him alone for too long. As night fell, she brought up tea and dry toast on a tray.

Sherlock had not moved since he laid down. Joan went around the bed, set the tray on the chair and turned on the lamp. She sat beside him on the bed and gently placed her hand on his shoulder, "Sherlock .... Sherlock sit up." No response. "I know you're awake." Her voice cooed softly to him, "Come on, sit up for me ....hmm ... please." Eyes still closed he rolled on to his back. She waited. He sat up, staring straight ahead, unwilling to meet her gaze. 

"Take a sip. Slowly." She held the mug of hot tea before him and waited. After a second or two, he reached for the cup, taking care not to touch her as he took it. His eyes side shifted quickly in her direction and then once again fixed blankly off into the distance. 

Sherlock took a careful sip of the hot tea and then another. Joan placed the plate of toast between them hoping he would take a bite. No words, no sounds ... He took another sip.

He suddenly leapt off the bed, cup crashing to the floor as he ran towards the bathroom. Joan followed. Sherlock's head bowed into the toilet. Joan knelt with him and held his forehead. He didn't resist. 

Sherlock sat back, and for the first time looked at her. He wiped his mouth and finally met her gaze. "Get out. I don't need you." His words were clipped and as he finished speaking he looked away.

Joan stood up and turned on the shower. "No." She stared him down. "You're going to take a shower."

He sat crumpled by the toilet and would not look at her. The steamy water rushed into the tub.

"I'll be back with clothes. I expect you to be in the shower." Joan's voice was steady and calm, hiding the fear and sadness that rushed at her when she looked at him. He said nothing. He did not move.

She turned and left the room. 

Upon her return, she found the bathroom empty, the shower off and his clothes in a heap by the toilet. Joan turned back to her room where she saw him in bed, under the covers, she presumed naked. At least he was clean and safe. That's all that mattered right now, he was safe. She took in his clean clothes and set them at the foot of the bed. His eyes were closed but he was not asleep. 

Joan lay down on top of the covers next to him. 

"I asked you to leave me alone."

"And I said no." Joan responded.

He flipped on his side suddenly and intently stared at her. "What do you want? Why are you here? Do you want to watch me writhe in pain? Does it please you?" He was becoming more agitated with each question. Sherlock's face was now inches from hers, his face full of rage. Joan stayed calm, maintained eye contact and waited for him to finish. "Do you want to fuck, Joan? Is that it! Hmm?" He flipped the covers off himself. "Come on then."

Joan stared him down, "Stop it. You are not scaring me away, Sherlock, so stop it. I'm not going anywhere. When you want to talk about what happened I'll be right here."

His eyes filled with tears and shut. Joan watched as he started collapsing. She reached over and draped the covers back over him. He fell slowly forward, shoulders shaking, his head landing face down onto her pillow. She placed an arm lightly on his shoulder and waited for a rebuff. When none came, she moved over him, held him, laying her head over his. She soothed him with words as his body convulsed with shame and guilt and sorrow. 

She felt his body slacken beneath her as exhaustion overwhelmed him. Sherlock slipped into a dead sleep. Joan was not so lucky. She held on to his warm body, trying to find solace in knowing he was safe... But for how long ... What happened to him ... How did he fall ... Why ...

She woke up to find him gone. Joan panicked. She called out to him, searched the house, finally finding him on the roof. He sat facing away from the rising sun, hands clenched, immobile. 

She came back with water and crackers, set them on the table beside him. "I'll be downstairs if you need me." No response.

Joan got inside, took a few steps downward before the sob she'd been holding back for days forced itself out of her throat. Alone in the darkened stairwell, it was her turn to collapse, her turn to let the sorrow and uncertainty overwhelm her.


	2. Chapter 2

Joan lifted her head. She wiped her face with both hands while struggling to take in gulps of air. She wasn't sure how long she'd sat crying, a few minutes, an hour ... but it had made no difference. The sick feeling of impending doom still crawled through her. Sherlock's fall had taken her down too. 

She muffled one more sob with both hands before it could escape her lips, rocking herself to soothe the pain. 

Talking to someone would help - the voice of sensible Joan the sober companion spoke up.

Joan snickered. Right. How? She could not fathom how to even begin to explain the relationship she and Sherlock shared, to guide someone through the tortuous path that brought them to this point... The only person who might understand was out there on the roof, drowning in self-loathing. Talking wouldn't help. 

Some part of her decided she needed out, if only for a little while, and she found herself standing and moving towards the door. She cleared her throat and wiped away the tears that lingered on her face. 

Joan stood behind him, so there would be no chance of his getting a glimpse of her. "I'm going to go run a few errands. I have my phone. Call if you need me. I can come right back." 

Sherlock sat absolutely motionless. No sign he heard or cared. Joan ducked her head and made her way down the stairs and away from him. 

 

She found reasons to be in and out of the brownstone throughout the day; more in than out. The small breaks helped clear her head. And throughout the day, she'd check in on him, still on the roof, fighting demons that only he saw. 

Joan checked up on Alfredo and relayed to Sherlock that he had been released from the hospital. He had sighed and looked down. That was as close to a reaction as she had gotten out of him today. She fielded calls from Marcus and Gregson, giving them only as much information as they needed. 

And now she had more news to deliver to Sherlock. 

Mr. Holmes had called. The conversation was brief and one sided. He would be here tomorrow. Joan wasn't sure if she was relieved or terrified at the prospect of Father Holmes making an appearance. 

Sherlock had no response to her news. Nothing. She waited for a few minutes more. Nothing. Joan was tired of being ignored. All compassion evaporated from her being. She came around in front of him and knelt so he had no choice but to look at her.

"Hey ... You are not the first person to ever relapse. You will survive and you may even be better for it. But you need to stop acting like a petulant child and accept help. You are not the only one who is suffering here." He said nothing but moved his face away from her glare.

Joan felt anger surge through her "Alright Sherlock, you want to do this all on your own? Fine. I give up. You win. I'm leaving you alone. You can sit up here until you rot." She stood up and stalked away from him. No longer would she contort herself for his benefit. She slammed the rooftop door behind her. 

Joan strode into her room and plopped on to the edge of her bed. A carousel of thoughts and emotions whirled inside her. She felt remorse. She felt anger. She felt powerless. The lump formed once more in her throat and try as she might, the tears flowed. 

His silhouette appeared in her doorframe. Sherlock walked towards her. Joan didn't want him to see her like this. "Go away. I can take care of myself, always have. Just go away." The statement was punctuated with a sob she was unable to contain.

Sherlock paid no heed to her words. He knelt before her, reaching up and taking her hands away from her face. She did not resist. He stared at her wide eyed, trying to find the words to breach the chasm he had created between them, hoping she would understand.

He brought his hand to her face and wiped tears from her cheek. "Watson..." his voice was barely a whisper. The sound of his voice pierced her and she closed her eyes and hung her head. She felt him slowly draw closer, felt his arms lightly encircle her, felt his hand spread wide across her back and bring her by increments closer to him. Joan disintegrated. Grabbing hold of him with both hands, she held on as tight as she could. She laid her head on his shoulder and sobbed. Sherlock reciprocated by squeezing her to him, burying his head in her hair, whispering apology after apology.

Joan cried for him and for herself and for years of pain she never let herself express. They clung to one another, holding on as the horror of the past few days drained out out of them. Breathing began to regulate, muscles to relax, tears lessened and the fear they'd both been living with eased. They drew apart, heads still almost touching. 

Sherlock looked down at her hands in his, "I can't begin to explain ... I'm scared for me ..... and for you .... I just ..." He shook his head as words once more escaped him.

Joan nodded her head, "You will work through this. It's going to be alright."

 

Joan woke up at daybreak. He lay beside her, sleep bestowing on him a peaceful expression. She resisted the urge to touch him. He wouldn't want it. No longer able to sleep, she crawled out of bed and went downstairs. 

At 8:15 the doorbell rang. Joan was sipping her coffee. Her eyes grew big at the sound. He couldn't be here this early. Sherlock was still sleeping. The doorbell rang again. She jumped to get it.

The man at the door looked nothing like Sherlock or Mycroft for that matter. Impeccably dressed in a three piece suit with a shock of silver white hair combed back with great care, Mr. Holmes introduced himself. He extended his hand, "And you must be Joan Watson." She smiled and ushered him into the house.

"How is he?" Joan was surprised by the question. Sherlock had described him in such a manner that she believed him not to care at all about his son.

"He's recovering, doing as well as can be expected."

The older man laughed, "Spoken like a true doctor and a diplomatic one at that." He walked into the library and looked around at books and knickknacks before turning his attention back to her. "So where is Sherlock? I'd rather not waste time. Get him for me please."

Joan began to see through the shiny veneer he initially presented. "He's still in bed. Sherlock has had a rough few days ..."

"Do you share a bed?" The question was put forth matter of factly, as if he had every right to ask.

Joan opened her mouth to tell him whether they did or not it was none of his business but was stopped by the gallop of footsteps descending the stairs. 

"Ah, Father. You're here early." Sherlock entered the room fully dressed; shirt collar, vest and jacket tightly buttoned. Joan stood in awe. He had somehow scraped himself up from the depths into reasonable facsimile of her partner. 

The men shook hands stiffly. Mr. Holmes looked over his son, "You don't look too bad."

Sherlock grimaced a smile at his father. "You unfortunately are looking much older than your years."

"Same old Sherlock." His father shook his head and pivoted towards Joan. "If you'll excuse us Joan, I'd like to have a word in private with my son."

Joan nodded and started to comply, but was instantly stopped by Sherlock. "No. She stays." Sherlock moved to her side. "Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Watson."

The senior Holmes looked from one to the other, surprised at his son's apparent attachment to the woman. Sherlock never connected with anyone, at least not for very long. "Fine. I'm here to provide damage control. I don't want the Holmes name dragged through the mud. The attorneys will settle up any legal issues from this incident and then your coming home with me."

"No." The word was strong and definite and came without hesitation from Joan's lips.


	3. Chapter 3

Both men turned towards Joan. Mr. Holmes rarely heard that particular word offered as a response to anything he said. He was at first shocked and then amused. Dismissing her comment with a quirk of an eyebrow and the upward turn of his lip, he turned his attention back to his son and continued speaking. "I have tickets to London booked for us for the end of the week; that should give you sufficient time to tie up loose ends." His eyes flitted between his son and Joan. 

Even in his weakened condition, Sherlock knew his father had just made a grave error. He had condescendingly dismissed Watson's comment. Sherlock said nothing, looked to his companion and waited. 

Joan had not taken her eyes off the senior Holmes. "I said, no. Sherlock is staying here. He has friends and a strong system of support here in New York, both are necessary to help him get him through this. Going to London would be foolish and dangerous for him. It is out of the question." Her voice betrayed, at least to Sherlock, the strain she was under. He doubted his father would notice. 

Smirking, Mr. Holmes turned his gaze back to his son, "Have the drugs left you so addled that you need this woman to speak for you?" 

Sherlock had enough of a filial attachment for his father, that he stepped between him and Watson. "I am not in any way "addled" as you so quaintly put. I am very much in charge of myself. But yes, Watson, as my partner and my friend, speaks for me. She cares about my well being and puts herself in harms way to protect me. Watson is correct on all counts. I will stay here."

Joan stood a little taller next to Sherlock, eyeing the older Holmes defiantly.

"Hah!" Mr. Holmes scoffed, "Never thought I'd see the day. You, conquered by a female. She doesn't even seem to be your type. Thought blondes were your weakness." He shook his head and his tone turned serious, "I am your father. I know what's best for you. Joan here may be able to meet your physical urges, give you a good hard spank or two, eh? ... but believe me as soon the trust fund disappears so will she, hmm. .... I? I will always be your father."

It was Joan's turn now to protect the older Holmes. Sherlock's face was red and a crazed look smoldered in his eyes as he took a step towards his father. Joan intervened. "I think perhaps you should leave now Mr. Holmes, for your own good." 

He turned his attention to Joan, "Oh his fits and rages don't frighten me." A condescending smile crossed his face, "I taught him everything he knows."

He walked towards the door, "Consider my offer, Sherlock. Once you are more in your right mind, you may see its worth. It will get you out of a bad situation." The comment was aimed pointedly at Watson. 

The door closed behind him. Sherlock and Watson stood stock still for a moment. 

With his father's departure, Sherlock's anger quickly dissipated,"Well, that didn't go too badly." 

She looked at him. Her lips quivered. His lip curled. Giggles bubbled up from her middle and in seconds, she was doubled over, laughing. Sherlock, not capable of giggles, smiled broadly and watched her, chuckling as he plopped into his chair and uncharacteristically unbuttoned his collar. 

Laughter was all that was left to them after having survived the horror and the monstrosities of the past few days. It's sweet release relaxed muscles held taut with days worth of stress. 

Joan brought the giggles under control, wiped the tears from her eyes and sat opposite him with a deep sigh. 

Sherlock beamed at her, "The look on his face when you said "No!" I thought dear old dah was going to have a stroke." 

Joan covered her mouth as the giggles surged again. They sat like two kids sharing a triumph. 

Slowly the moment passed and they sat in silence. She noticed that he was once more beginning to show the signs of strain. Sherlock had summoned all his strength and bravado to face his father and the facade was now crumbling. He had not eaten in days. 

"Come on." She stood up suddenly. "You are coming downstairs with me and you are going to eat something." He rose reluctantly and followed her. "How about we start you off with a small bowl of oatmeal and see how that sets?" 

\-------   
"Small bites." She placed the bowl before him. "Eat slow." 

The smell of the cooked oats was enough to turn his stomach but he was going to try for her sake. He picked up the spoon and stirred. "You know he won't give up easy. He's more than likely to throw us out of here if he can't get his way." Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet hers. 

"I know..... We'll be okay. This isn't the only brownstone in Brooklyn. ... We'll just have to take this one step at a time. See what he throws at you next."

"Hmm." He took in a small mouthful of food and tried not to gag. 

She watched him. "Try the toast. That might be easier to start with." Joan sat back in her chair and studied the tabletop. 

Sherlock knew that look. She had something to say but didn't know how to say it. He took a careful bite of the toast. "Out with it Watson." It was more a request than a command. 

Joan took in a big breath. "I know you've already had a stressful morning but I thought perhaps later this afternoon you could go see Alfredo." 

Sherlock's eyes glazed as he put down the toast. He made no attempt to respond. She continued, "I think it would be good for both of you to talk about what happened."

Sherlock stared down at his plate; he strained to form the words. "I'm sure I'm the last person on the planet that he wants to see right now..... He nearly died because of me ... I betrayed his trust and his belief in me ... I can imagine that he feels nothing but disappointment and disgust towards me...... I would not inflict him with my presence ..." His words trailed off and he sat hunched at the table, head bent. 

Joan took a moment before responding. "You nearly got him killed but he survived. You have an opportunity with Alfredo that I never got with Andrew. Talk to him..... I think he probably understands more than anyone what you're going through right now." 

Sherlock said nothing. He stood without looking at her and walked toward the stairs. Joan knew he was withdrawing back to his perch on the roof. Joan understood. Grief and self-loathing were no strangers to her. She would give him time.


End file.
